


Blades are Meant to Carve into Others

by dowteks



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/M, Long Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21540268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dowteks/pseuds/dowteks
Summary: No one would ever be interested in Talon for Talon. He was just, would always be, a means to an ulterior end. A killer for another’s qualms. A paraded Champion for magical psychos. A little brother when it was convenient. A lover for a toss of the coin.An ersatz to spite the genuine.
Relationships: Katarina Du Couteau/Talon Du Couteau
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	Blades are Meant to Carve into Others

He slung the pack over his shoulder, and growled at an urchin who tried to snatch it from him.

It was good to be back. 

The sun was high, and the city was alive. It hummed; vibrating, _thriving_ off the useless, desperate cries of the weak and the rich, animalistic laughter of the powerful. The din grew into a fervent, orgiastic climax as he wandered through the dusty streets of the marketplace.

Something about Noxus made Talon shake with inexplicable glee.

The air was stifling, seeing as the city was surrounded by barren desert, and the throngs of people clamoring around street vendors and seedy thrift stores only intensified the dry, sweltering air. The air shimmered as the assassin ventured deeper; it pulsed to an exotic tempo that whispered hints of seduction and danger to his sensitive ears. The heat was overpowering, drowning out the chaos with a dull, throbbing ache. 

Talon shifted uncomfortably. His hood was drawn low, shielding him from the relentless sunlight, smoothing the damp locks flat against his skull. The cloak was no better. His entire body was drenched, and thousands of warm beads of sweat ran irritatingly down his neck and shoulders with every step he took. 

The pungent, spice-filled atmosphere of the marketplace washed over him in waves, overwhelming him, and he bit his tongue as his eyes instinctively began to water. Suddenly dizzy, he staggered, blindly stumbling into the inky depths of a hidden alley. 

It was like all his senses switched off at once. He gasped, savoring the fresh–by Noxian standards–air. 

He lowered his cowl, and was overcome by how sweetly the cool air kissed his head. He crawled deeper into the alley, comforted by the frothy blanket of shadows that was always the same, no matter where he was. Like a newborn clawing back into the womb. 

A murmured curse word–being away had made him weak. 

Talon sank against the wall at the end and plucked a dagger off his belt, expertly feeling for the grooves, the bumps that made this one different. The grin that snuck across his face was impossible to fight back as he rolled it over, testing the tip with both of his hands. 

He pressed the flat of the blade up against his cheek, exhaling sharply at how _right_ it felt, how well a cold hunk of metal could _understand_ him and–

He looked up. 

He wasn’t alone.

A low chuckle resonated, cutting through the dark. 

Talon rolled his eyes. The laugh was amateur. It was a false confidence, and that was more condemning than fear in Noxus. It wasn’t long before he could make out a figure, long and skinny, standing a few feet in front of him. 

The intruder was holding a dagger, one sizably larger than the one Talon was cradling. Talon could practically feel the improper balance, smell the rust smothering the blade, and he gnashed his teeth at how neglected the poor thing was.

The man shifted his weight and sized up the amorphous creature in front of him tentatively. Talon didn’t have the heart to indicate that here, in this dark, hidden alley, he could see this grossly disheveled man far more clearly than he could see Talon. 

“Well, hello there, friend. I saw ya strugglin’ with that wretched heat ‘fore you headed in this dark lil’ place,” the man rasped.

Talon stood up, amused, and waited for the stranger to continue.

“See now, this dingy alley here’s _mine_. Normally I charge ya sorry trespassers a hefty sum, but, bein’ a b’sinessman, I feel ’s’only fair to let ya know there’s a deal here to be made,” the thief smiled and unclasped his belt buckle. 

“I saw, ‘neath that cowl, ye’ve an awful pretty face, and I been so lonely lately. Th’ heat’s gotten so no one wan’s t’lie wi’ me no more.” 

_The heat. Sure._

“Mayhaps ya wanna open up that big ol’ stuffy cloak for me, n’ show me a good time, n’ I’ll let ya walk outta here. No payment needed. Ye might even like it.” 

The stranger paused, expecting a reply. When still nothing was said, he raised his dagger to eye level and menacingly growled, “Or I could stick ya and fuck yer mangled corpse instead.” 

Talon sighed. The man was ubiquitous. The threat was weak, and the intent was pedestrian. He would have simply left, if not for the utter disrepair of the blade the thief held. 

A blade was the singular means by which a Noxian lowlife could survive. A rusty blade was a rusty mind was a rusty body. 

He expected better from Noxian scum. 

The robber snarled and lunged forward, and embraced the empty air. He frantically whirled around, stabbing blindly at the blackness around him; and in a flurry of six razor-sharp knives, was ripped open cleanly and calculatedly. 

The man swayed in place, his face a ghost-white that shone in the darkness. A low gurgle emitted from his throat, and he clasped a hand to his belly, retching when he felt something warm and slimy oozing between his palms. He looked down slowly, and cold terror filled his eyes when he found himself holding dark, sludgy entrails in his hands. 

The thief sputtered, and a trickle of blood leaked from his gaping mouth and rolled off his chin. He took one desperate step backward, one final attempt at escape, and fell dead. 

Without a sound, Talon slunk out of the shadows and stooped over his would-be assailant. 

The assassin’s assailant. 

He smirked at the thought. Talon picked up the man’s rusted butcher knife and methodically, like a surgeon, probed it between the body’s legs. His payment. 

Talon could see the handle of the dagger he’d been toying with earlier, the blade deeply buried in the man’s chest. His upper lip curled, and he tugged out the blade with a wet _schlick_. 

He wiped the blood on the corpse’s tattered clothes. For a few minutes, Talon stared at the blade and, with a curious expression, pressed it

_her_

to his face once again. 

He hissed and recoiled. The blade was piping hot. 

Disgusting. 

* * *

Even the lumbering, idiotic Freljordian barbarians he’d been assigned years ago had been harder to dispose of than that Noxian bandit. 

Talon shuffled along, hood drawn once again, gaze set intently on the sandy path beneath him. Puffs of dry dust were kicked up and clung to his boots, and the sultry orange sun gradually submerged itself beneath the horizon. He walked, oblivious to his environment. His mind was elsewhere. 

He had once been that man in the alleyway. He had once killed and pillaged because his lifestyle had required it. That was the joy, the spark that he remembered from Noxus and Noxus alone. 

But it was gone. After General du Co–

 _damn it_

–after _Marcus_ vanished, and even more recently, after joining with the Institute to try and seek him, killing a man was like signing a document. Empty and necessary.

His blades were starving, and nothing seemed to feed them anymore. 

Faint, tinkling laughter suddenly invaded his thoughts, and he looked up, shattered out of his idle musings. 

Hm. The sun had set faster than he thought, and the sky was painted a royal purple, with streaks of gold lingering at the horizon. A few couples passed by, hand-in-hand, and pointed at the rich hues, wonder shimmering in their eyes.

He stared at the sky, and tried to care. He couldn’t. 

* * *

His mindless path continued. He wiped sweat off his forehead and swore; not even nighttime could save Noxus from its hellish climate.

The laughter began again, off to his right. He stopped and turned, annoyed by the noise, and saw

 _Kata_ –?

one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

She was talking leisurely with another woman, over by the entrance of a dilapidated building he did not recognize. Her dark, crimson hair tumbled down her back, like a rich red wine spilled carelessly from a goblet, ~~like his _sister’s_ ~~. Her eyes were a powerful stormy blue, cold and dangerous, and made him want to dive within their frigid depths. Her nose was aristocratic and...and...

...and her body was divine. 

She was shaped like a gladiatorial blade, the kind that flared out at the tip. Or maybe she was shaped like something more elegant. He did not care for epithets. 

She wore a sleeveless raven-colored corset that melted into an equally dark, snugly fit miniskirt, and the clothing all but accentuated every smooth curve of her form. Yet despite her libertine wear, she looked every part a noblewoman, surveying the decrepit kingdom that was the Noxian slums.

His eyes trailed down her body appreciatively, unconsciously. It was the natural thing to do, like a god had sculpted her for display in the museum that was society. 

Her collarbone was prominent, ladylike. Twin muscles traced down her graceful neck and nestled within her clavicle, giving her a waifish appearance. Her arms were thin but maintained, the shadow cast by her shoulders emphasized in the night.

He continued downward, and he felt his trousers tighten as he appreciated her chest, straining against the constrictive fabric of the corset. The plunging neckline tantalizingly emphasized the gentle swell of her breast, which shone invitingly under a thin layer of sweat and radiant moonlight. Talon swiftly revoked all his complaints about the fabled Noxian heat. 

He marveled at the flatness of her belly, which was swallowed by shadows that paradoxically gave her taut muscles form. Her hips were equally captivating, flaring gracefully outward like a porcelain vase. An urge to violently grip them while burying himself repeatedly within her seized him, and he winced but continued to stare. 

The mini-skirt clung tightly to her curves, ensuring that her voluptuous figure was perfectly captured. Muscular thighs tapered into slender calves, and were punctuated by crimson high heels, giving her an air of dominance that drew him in. She seemed mighty and empowered and lewd and angelic in this lawless land. 

In fact, Talon thought she might have been Noxus itself. Everything he loved. Everything he feared. 

She turned toward him, feeling his hungry gaze consume her. The woman eyed him up and down slowly, playfully, and laughed again, lower this time, secretive and throaty and tickling his ear.

Impulsively, he took a shaky step toward her, and she nodded, her plump lips curving into an impish smile. 

* * *

He loved Noxus. It had been far too long.

His body moved of its own accord as he continued to edge closer to her. Her sensuous gaze beckoned him closer, and Talon saw her subtly motion for the other woman to go back inside the building and shut the door–something he silently thanked her for.

He didn’t want any spectators.

Talon quickened the pace to an unassuming gait, until he too was at the entrance of the decrepit building, standing before her. His length twitched to life, and he felt like he was bleeding, leaking some vital part of him out for the world to see. 

Face to face now, he could see just how deep of an azure her eyes were. It felt like he were falling into the ocean, or staring upwards at a cloudless sky, or something equally poetic and bullshit. He cleared his throat and pretend they were green, instead.

Talon’s eyes narrowed as he took in her surprising height. She stood level with him, and he stiffened his back from its usual slouch subconsciously, desperate to have any sort of upper hand against her fearsome beauty.

False confidence. 

The striking woman spoke, and he felt pinned by her voice, skewered in place. He had heard this voice before, rich, husky, demanding, loving. 

“Hey there, handsome,” she whispered, her tone making each syllable ring achingly suggestive as she sauntered toward him.

She offered no introduction, no name exchange. He could have married her. 

Closing the gap between them, she pushed him into the railing behind them and molded her shapely body flush against his, shorting out his thought processes. 

Talon dropped his pack to the floor and cried out wordlessly. She was warm, warmer even than the scorching desert night, and they were so close that his lips brushed against the silky skin of her cheek every time he exhaled. She smelled like cinnamon and crushed herbs, and her fragrance caged him. Sweat beaded Talon’s brow, and he flushed, averting his gaze. Noxian heat was nothing to scoff at.

He could feel her breasts, agonizingly soft yet firm, press into him, and he moaned against his will when she purred happily, sending shivers through both of their bodies.

He swallowed with difficulty, mouth suddenly dry, and felt himself stiffen embarrassingly further. It had been far too long. She felt him throb against her stomach and gave him a terribly knowing smirk. He wanted to vanish. The lady let out a childlike giggle, the kind that should never have come from her, and grinded harder against him. 

Grinning wolfishly, she carefully took his hood between her hands and lowered it lightly. She laughed when she saw the desire plainly scribbled upon his expression, and she ran her hands through his long dark hair with delicate, feather-like movements.

Talon absently noted that the lady had snaked one of her impossibly long legs around his waist, gripping and squeezing them even more tightly together. Her skirt had hiked up, and exposed more of her milky-white legs than he had dared even imagine. 

The lady’s hands lovingly ran up and down his chest and abs, groping at his slender physique through the thin fabric of his shirt. Whatever blood was left in Talon’s head drained instantly.

Feigning suaveness, and unwilling to be so easily vanquished, he slid his hand up the leg draped around him, traveling from her lean calf to the underside of her shapely thick thigh, kneading the soft flesh and earning the faintest of gasps from her. He massaged her tenderly, almost like a lover would, marveling at the sheer lack of fat upon her limbs. 

His hand traveled ever backwards, and came to a halt around the ample curve of her backside. He felt himself throb once again as he traced over the impossibly plump cheek, memorizing how it elegantly rounded back into her thigh. Talon grinned, pleased, and grasped forcefully, grinding their hips together again.

This time, her moan was audible, low and breathy, and she giggled once again as she felt Talon’s obscured length strain against her belly.

She pressed her luscious lips right above his collarbone and began to nibble gently, leaving a trail of delicate kisses up his neck, before whispering,

“Five hundred, and we can take this somewhere more private, gorgeous.” 

Talon snarled, and flung her away from him. She flew backward and yelped as she collided against the wall of the building with a _crack_. 

He should’ve _fucking_ known. Of course she wasn’t ~~Kata~~ – _fucking_ interested in him. Of course she was just a _fucking_ hooker. 

Talon reflexively yanked his hood down low and pounced upon her, clamping one hand down upon her mouth while swiftly drawing a blade with the other. He pressed the tip up to the point of her jaw, breath ragged and hot. 

He stared long and hard into her eyes, which were wild with fear, and gently applied more and more pressure. 

Talon dully noticed her ample chest heave frantically as a trickle of blood gradually streamed from her chin down his length. He slowly carved upward, tracing the elegant contour of her jawline, until the entire side of her gorgeous, pale face was streaked red. 

He leaned in close, prodding the exposed flap of meat with a rough hand, making sure his words would sting, would be buried permanently within her, and whispered softly, like a lover:

“I see you again, I take your face with me.”

She choked out a sob.

Struck by inspiration, he took the blade and drew a thin, thoughtful slice down her left eyebrow. She screamed, the raw sound muffled in the hazy air. He throbbed violently. 

Talon beheld her, with her harrowed blue stare and her sad, ruined face. In an act of mercy, in an act of disgust, he stopped at her eyelid, watching her weep crimson. He let go of her abruptly, letting her head slam back mercilessly against the wall, and picked up his satchel to stalk into the comfort of the night.

* * *

He should’ve known _._ He should have known. Nothing in Noxus happened without the exchange of coin. 

_I’ve been away too long_ , he bitterly reminded himself.

He had wiped off some of the woman’s blood that he’d gotten on his gloves and blade on a nearby merchant’s tent, eager to rid himself wholly of the experience.

Talon trembled. He needed release. His blades

_one in particular_

itched, crawled, seethed. They were starving. 

He marched with purpose, his feet taking him to the only place where he felt something other than pain.

* * *

The du Couteau Estate was all the way toward the west side of Noxus, surrounded by filth. It stood as a reminder to the urchins that they could also rise up, that they could also become powerful and rich and _somebody_. The old man du Couteau was adamant that he lived there, with the people, despite the increasing attempts at robbery and assassination.

One such attempt at robbery had alerted his attention to a young, unnamed boy with a particular affinity for knives. It was as though these shoddy, second-rate daggers were extensions of his fingers. Like a raptor diving to gouge its prey. 

General du Couteau regarded him as such, and named him—well, you know. 

And as Talon approached the pearly white gates, he realized that pain found him here, too. His chest tightened as he pictured his 

_her_

father at the top of the steps, with a caring, loving hand outstretched, beckoning him in. Beckoning him to stand beside him. Beckoning him to _be_ somebody. 

As he leapt over the gate—because opening it was too much work—he faced those same blinding white steps, luminescent in the moonlight. It felt like a path to heaven, or whatever celestial empire lay past the stars. 

But nobody was at the top of the steps. And nobody ever would be again.

* * *

The reason Talon had come home from the Institute was because he had failed to find Marcus. Failure was not something Talon was familiar with, and it had taken him years before he realized that he would not find Marcus. His travels took him all over Valoran, and left a trail of bodies with absolutely no correlation to his presence. 

Talon had grown jaded. His family had fallen apart. Cass was in a depressive state, and refused to see those whom she once knew. There was a steady stream of visitors— _men_ to her chambers at the Institute, and it weighed Talon down with an emotion he did not know. He hated thinking of Cass. 

And as for _her_. She had taken up residence back at the Mansion only a year after joining the Institute—about three years ago. He had grabbed her arm while he helped her pack, asked her why. A sheaf of her brilliant scarlet hair covered her left eye, and she shrugged off his grip. Didn’t answer. Left the next day.

But he knew why. She was Daddy’s little girl. She could not bear the possibility that the search would be fruitless, and so she gave up on searching at all. 

And thus it fell upon Talon to search, and thus Talon learned what failure meant. 

It was not a welcome feeling. He _knew_ Marcus was out there somewhere, which made him hurt all the more. 

Talon climbed the steps wearily, all sense of purpose drained. A part of him itched, starved, but he ignored it. Squashed it down. It wasn’t important. 

* * *

He heaved open the gigantic wooden doors that stood before him. On the other side was the lone butler, dagger drawn, murder in her eyes. She lunged, and he caught her with a laugh, removing his hood. 

Recognition sparked flashed across her face, and she grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. Her smile immediately dropped and she swiftly moved to shut the doors closed. 

“Do you wish for dinner?” she asked him pleasantly, with no mention of her panic from thirty seconds ago. 

He shook his head. With one look, she guessed his question.

“Master Katarina is training in the courtyard,” she told him with a guarded look. “Forgive me, but I shall draw a bath for you before you see her. She prefers her visitors _clean,_ lately.” 

He thought to protest that he wasn’t just a visitor, but thought against it. _Master_ Katarina was known for her temperamental phases, and it was best to simply indulge her. 

So he followed the butler, whose name escaped him, up to one of the many bathrooms, and allowed her to ready the bath for him. 

As he plodded along behind her, he thought back to the times where dozens of servants roamed the halls of the du Couteau house, filling the halls with a sense of pleasant business and comfort. Things were happier when his Father was around.

But after the General vanished, so too did their loyalty. Many of them banded together to try and loot the place, but Talon learned of their plans late one night when he eavesdropped on them in the cellar. 

He kept the leader’s head mounted in the yard as the hounds devoured the body. It had stayed there for weeks, horror splayed across its face. The servants had left quietly and without fuss after that. They did not steal, but they did not wish to serve a former urchin, a _monster_ , and a bipolar brat pining for her father. 

Only the butler had stayed. And thus he felt pity that he did not know her name. 

* * *

The bathroom was spotless, and he felt as though his presence, his existence, were enough to dirty it. Using one of those foreign hextech devices, the butler filled the tub with water, and Talon watched the steam curl upward and diffuse across the room. 

The butler took Talon's pack and, with a bow, left him to his own devices. Talon quickly began to disrobe, starting with his heavy cloak. Piece by piece, blade by blade, Talon stripped in a disinterested manner. He did not particularly care for baths. It was one of the many aspects of aristocracy that clashed with who he was. The cleanest bits of him had been the parts he stuck in others. 

...that sounded dirtier than he intended. 

He looked at himself in the mirror with a curiosity much like a child prodding a writhing beetle; it was morbid, it was detached, it was mildly sadistic. 

Talon had once been told, by an old admirer long ago, that his body was alluring. In a land saturated with macho men boasting tectonic pectorals that masked continental insecurities, Talon’s wiry physique was supposedly a breath of fresh air. 

He had changed little since then. Talon’s jaw was still bare and angular, sharply contouring to the bones beneath. His body was smooth and segmented by sinew. His ribs cast a shadow over the tightly drawn skin of his lower belly. His chest was broad but shallow. His arms were similarly lanky, with only muscles of necessity rounding out their form. He still looked like the same starving, drowning rat he had been in the tunnels beneath the earth. 

His gaze drifted to the parts of his body that his admirer had found _more_ enticing. He did not like the way his admirer touched his body. Talon did not like his body at all. 

He thought for one last instant how this admirer, this fellow scum, had looked at the moment of his death, when Talon had turned on him in an instant to claim a bounty that amounted to little more than a loaf of bread. The quivering man had still been naked beneath the sheets, and drew them up around him as though they would offer protection. 

Talon was not hungry back then. He lingered on the man’s face, terrified, shocked, _betrayed_ , and felt his stomach growl. 

* * *

The water was heated and kissed and massaged his aching muscles. Talon sank into the bath like a body in the gutter. 

A small hextech device hanging above the mirror displayed the hour, and he knew that he had to hurry up before _she_ went to sleep. Cold moonlight spilled into the bathroom and pooled atop the bath water, painted him silver. 

And he thought of Katarina. 

Talon’s attraction to her could not be denied, ever since the moment she pounced on him and tried to slit his throat twelve years ago. She, like her father, was symbolic of something Talon always had desired: the might of Noxus, the culmination of strength and pedigree, the ability to _be_ someone in this accursed land. 

It had only festered from that point on. She always came to blows with him over the affection and favor of Marcus. The blows became cuts and slices and scars as they honed their expertise with blades. But the General always made sure that they patched one another up afterward. He claimed he would leave them to bleed out and die in the dust if they could not learn to look after each other. 

They were young, then. One dark, cloudless night, in the mansion’s opulent medical ward, they had approached one another curiously, like a dog sniffing another mangy dog. The two of them rolled up their sleeves and trousers and whistled at the wounds they had dealt and received. 

Tending to them had stung, and Katarina always had a brusque manner about her. He was used to sewing up cuts because of his years in the sewers, and she reminded him as much with a derisive sneer. 

They were young, then. Curiosity got the better of them. It started with a small gesture—Talon pushed the hem of Katarina’s shirt a little too far upward, and froze when he grazed the softness of her budding chest. It escalated into larger gestures—she giggled sweetly and placed her hand atop his, urging him to continue. She ran her other hand up and down his ass, caressing its firm outline through the cloth. They gradually began removing the bloodied clothing from one another, desperate and eager and starved to understand what made the two of them feel the way they did. 

Talon and Katarina found themselves bare, stripped of their shells, and circled each other like they had when they sparred. Even then, she had been exquisitely beautiful. Her womanhood had not been carved down her face yet, but she still had sharp, pleasantly angled features juxtaposed by sparkling green eyes. Her body was far from the voluptuous figure she would become known for, but carried pleasant curves and taut muscles that indicated her flat stomach and shapely legs.

She drank him in with a hungry, prying gaze. He felt alive. He felt ashamed. Talon felt himself tighten painfully—a sensation he was still only beginning to become familiar with. Her nose had wrinkled and she squinted at it like a cat lazily eyeing a nearby mouse. 

They had approached and attempted to capture the other in a childish embrace. They collapsed to the floor, groping, _searching_ , trying to understand one another. They hesitated, and then pressed their lips together, sloppily, amateurishly. They trailed their kisses lower: he nibbled tentatively at her pert breasts, she ran a shy tongue along the length of his member; they panted animalistically. 

Their hands continued to seek out one another, and they became bolder in their inquisitions—he slipped a probing finger in the crook of her slim legs, making her writhe and moan and buck her hips up toward him. She kneaded and pumped and gripped him fully, and a devilish grin danced upon her face as Talon cried out, overwhelmed by salacious bliss.

Their explorations never traveled further than what essentially amounted to naked wrestling, but their lack of knowledge made their actions seem all the more vulgar. Katarina was the first woman Talon would ever see wholly. 

There they were, brother and sister. There they were, agonizingly laid bare, curled fetal and filthy and intertwined as they tried to parse their feelings.

There they stayed, wrapped in one another’s arms, until the sun crept warm fingers along their naked skin and they dressed and never spoke of that night again. When their father asked why they stopped treating one another after sparring, they just shrugged. 

And so now, here, today, Talon festered in the bathtub, still starving, still filthy. 

He looked down into the bath water and groaned. He tried a trick given to him by a merchant from Bilgewater and flexed his bicep until he didn’t feel quite so swollen anymore. 

Then he rose. Water streamed down his body and turned a milky silver as the moonlight lanced through it. He emerged from the tub, feeling renewed. He felt clean. He felt ready for her.

* * *

The clamor in the courtyard was audible from two hallways over. Talon smiled and shook his head. Same as ever. 

He was clad in a simple sleeveless shirt and loose grey trousers that he had found in his untouched chambers. Talon was grateful for the airy clothing and that his hair, which now tickled the nape of his neck, could finally breathe. 

He thought he was ready, but he wasn’t. He had no idea what to say to Katarina. 

It had been a year since he had last seen her, and two years since they last exchanged any sort of meaningful conversation. 

This time, Talon would be bearing the news that he had failed in his search. It was _quite_ unlikely she’d take that positively. 

Like Cass, Katarina was prone to recede into herself to try and cope with trauma. She had done it when they lost their mother, and she had been doing it ever since Marcus vanished, too. But unlike Cass, Katarina had violent, impulsive tendencies: she would train for weeks on end until the fatigue killed her trainers; she would enter Institute-mediated matches with nothing short of a death wish, praying to be rent and gutted and slain over and over again; and 

_she leaves me to rot_

she would vanish for months without the slightest hint of where she might have gone. 

There were rumors that she was found lingering in Demacia for some odd months, and Talon would gnash his teeth and punch walls in frustration when he heard those tales. For all he knew, she could be starting the apocalypse by assassinating someone just a little _too_ important. 

He was her brother. Talon owed it to her to keep her safe. He chastised himself for being away for so long. 

Talon drew closer. He could hear the familiar, satisfying _thunk_ of throwing knives embedding themselves into thick wood. He peered around the corner, and— 

—there she was. 

He really had missed her. 

Katarina’s fabled fiery red hair spread out behind her like a spray of blood, with lines of silver painted through it in the moonlight. Her stance was predatory, every fiber of her being poised to kill. She wore simple athletic clothing: a basic, form-fitting white tunic that cropped at the top of her belly, and tight black trousers that dangerously adhered to the lovely slopes of her legs. Her exposed skin was slick with sweat and lustrous in the night, alluding to the intensity of her training. 

But it was her face that made his throat constrict and the hollow cavity of his chest knot tightly. 

Katarina looked hopelessly, utterly alive. She always struggled with masking her emotions, and tonight was no exception. Her brilliant green eyes sparkled with eternal joy and childishness despite the gnarled scar ripped through one of them. Her nose was thin and straight, like a regal warrior queen’s, and was pointed toward the sky as she flung her head back to admire her handiwork. Rosy lips formed an enigmatic smirk. Talon found himself admiring the sharp taper of her jawline, lending her face a wild, carnivorous appearance. 

Then she saw him. 

She took a step toward him, and before he could even blink, he heard a faint _pop_ and felt the cold edge of 

_her_

a knife cuddled flush against his neck. He could feel its serrated edge and immaculate balance, as expected of a family of blade fanatics. 

“Why are you here?” a gravelly voice demanded, though he hoped he was sensing an amused undertone to the harsh words.

Talon suppressed a laugh. She was as blunt as ever. 

“How about taking this butchering tool off my neck, first?” he quipped back. “I can’t handle this kind of stress.” 

The pressure faded, and he instinctively rubbed his neck. He could practically hear her face split open in a smile. And it crushed him all the more that he’d be taking it away. 

Another _pop!_ , and he found himself face-to-face with a grinning Katarina du Couteau. 

* * *

They sat next to each other on the marble steps dripping into the courtyard, like they had so often years ago. Talon sat crouched, his knees tucked in to his chest, and Katarina reclined languidly. 

He opened his mouth, and she spoke.

“You couldn’t find him.” she said with a yawn, cleaning beneath her fingernails with the point of her knife. 

Talon’s eyes widened and flicked sideways to gauge her expression. She looked detached, uninterested, like he was telling her about the death of his friend’s grandmother’s dog. 

“What makes you think tha–” he began, before she quieted him with a look. 

“Because if he wanted to be found, we would have found him,” she stated simply. “Daddy isn’t so helpless to have _gotten lost_ or something. He probably has greater things to do, things none of us can know about.” 

She yawned again and stretched her arms skyward, arching her back like a pampered tabby. Talon wasn’t convinced. His ear was well trained to sense the emotion in Katarina’s words. After all, it had meant life-or-death at one point. 

And he had heard her voice waver, just the tiniest bit, with her last sentence.

 _Greater things to do. Like leaving us all behind._

She was hurt, just like he was. She was being tough, which he couldn’t. 

Katarina faced him and raised a thin eyebrow twain by her scar, and the corners of her mouth rose mischievously. 

“The only _news_ you’re giving me is that you’re back, my cute little urch. And the only good thing about _that_ is I finally have a live body to pummel instead of another stupid piece of wood. I don’t think you understand how _bored_ I’ve been around here.”

Katarina rose and beckoned him with a wave of her hand. She cartwheeled and vaulted into the sandy courtyard. There she stood, waiting with a smirk, her hip cocked brazenly to one side. 

He sighed and clenched his fists. A year had passed since she had seen the little _urch_ that was her brother. A year had passed, and she welcomed him like he had come home from the market. Like he was as much a change in her environment as her bedsheets being swapped. 

He really had missed her. And she clearly did not care. 

Talon stood and stalked after her. He hated the nickname _urch_. She had named him as such when they were still hostile, to always remind him of his lesser status as a street urchin. But somehow, it had stuck. Even Cass, with all her etiquette and manners, would slip up and address him as such at times. 

He grit his teeth and glared at her. 

“I just bathed and got ready for bed. I’m not about to undo all that effort. I’m tired and hungry and only came out to see you because I thought you’d appreciate the information. I’m not gonna be back for _ever_ , so I’d rather _enjoy_ the time that I spend here.” 

Katarina rolled her eyes. “The Institute softened you up, Talon. Can’t you tell how fun this’ll be? This house isn’t gonna be so damn empty for a change. Life won’t be as boring as it’s been for me. It’s _us_ again, up against the world.”

She idly twirled the knife she held before continuing. 

“I made my peace with Daddy leaving. It’s you and I here, now, who have to take over things. You and I who will inherit _Noxus_. And we can’t do that when you’re all emotional and butthurt and squishy because a fancy magical institute-cult has been kissing your behind and I’m not.” 

“So yes, I appreciate that you took the time to clean yourself and smell nice, for once. I’m glad you’re still sensitive enough to think I’m aching to know where Daddy is. But we’re not useful to Noxus as fragrant sensitive flower people. I’m the blade, and you’re its nightmarish, unfeeling, _remorseless_ shadow. You should start acting like one.”

With those final words, Katarina readied her stance and pounced.

* * *

She wasn’t wrong. He _had_ gone soft. 

Katarina had dropped the knife, choosing instead to lunge at him with an incredibly fast swing of her fist. Talon was only barely able to bring his arms up to defend himself, but just before contact, she vanished and appeared behind him, kicking him hard in the small of his back. 

Talon saw stars and tasted sand when he crumpled, folding into the ground and slamming his cheek against the dirt. He reflexively flipped over to lie face-up, staring at his assailant. Katarina stood over him, with an eerily neutral expression on her face. Her lips were parted, her stare was wide and glazed over, and her fiery mane looked like a blood-red moon consuming her. She looked terrified. She looked terrifying. 

He put his hands behind his head and swung his hips to try and leap upward in recovery. But his lower back knotted and cried out from the kick it had received, and his legs flopped uselessly back to earth. Katarina still looked down at him with that horrifying blank face, and raised a heel to step on him.

He growled and rolled to the side, rising to his feet while doing so. He sprinted away, trying to create some distance and gather his thoughts. 

But Katarina was too fast and too strong. She started toward him and sprang, catching him around the waist and sending them hurtling across the courtyard. Their flight was stopped when he collided against the wall circling the yard, hitting his head _hard_ again the stone. 

_this seems familiar_

He sagged and would have fallen in a ruined heap if not for Katarina. She grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the wall, forcing him upright. He struggled against her grasp, but couldn’t move. Her grip was iron; her strength far outclassed his. Katarina shoved her face right up to his, her hot, predatory breath splashing against his chin and neck. Talon’s head lolled, but his adrenaline had taken over. He had been in this situation too often, both as the victim and the assailant, and the panic seized his heart and mind until he was no longer Talon, but a bundle of sympathetic neurons. 

Talon’s instincts forced him to action. He looked at the dirt beneath them, and saw the handle of a knife glittering in the sand. Talon hooked the toe of his boot beneath it and flicked it up, catching the handle between his teeth, ignoring how his jaw and neck felt like they were on fire. He lunged at her, not thinking, not caring, overcome with the desire to cut and stab and maim until he was safe agai–

–Katarina’s typical expression had returned. Her bright eyes narrowed in amusement, her scar flushed a furious scarlet, and he stayed his assault, the blade centimeters from her neck. Her panting slowed, and she released her vice-grip upon his wrists, which he rubbed gratefully. 

She walked back to the center of the courtyard and picked up the knife she had dropped at the start of their fight. And then she vanished. This time, Talon was ready.

He raised his knife and cooly blocked her vicious swing to his shoulder when she appeared behind him. Caught off guard, Katarina stumbled, and he rammed the heel of his boot into her stomach, hurling her several yards away. She used the momentum to flip backwards and land gracefully, but she winced and clutched her stomach seconds later. 

Talon grinned savagely. She was stronger than him, sure, but he wasn’t nearly as rusty with the blade. 

They circled one another, their muscles tensed to attack, to defend. They gave each other a wide berth, ready for either one of them to cross it in an instant. 

This time, Talon took the offensive, surging forward like a raptor gliding impossibly low to the ground. He swung high, forcing Katarina to block the strike to her chest, and he could feel her arm shudder at his onslaught. Talon planned his time in microseconds–the moments Katarina spent stabilizing herself against his strike were immediately spent ducking low and trying to sweep her legs out from beneath her. 

Katarina was equally quick, though. She leapt over him and spun, whipping her legs around her like a murderous windmill. Both of her kicks struck him across the face, and he spiralled, tumbling and skidding across the yard. 

She laughed then, a sadistic, gleeful laugh that men of wealth and men of influence universally recognized as a preamble to their demise. But the true terror Talon felt was hearing that chuckle stem from her vacant visage. He shakily picked himself up and massaged his shoulder.

Katarina bounded toward him, crossing dozens of yards in deerlike strides. She came down with a fist as she rose up with her knife, and Talon once again stopped being a Champion and reverted back to the _urch_ he hated so much. He barely raised his shoulder in time to bear the brunt of her blow, and sharply and viciously dragged his own blade across the flesh of her forearm.

They stopped in place. Katarina’s knife fell soundlessly into the sand, and dark blood thinly oozed from the cut he had etched onto her. 

Talon smiled inwardly, then bit his tongue when a fresh wave of pain lanced along his stomach. He looked down and saw that his shirt had been sliced open through the middle, with a thin scratch running up along with it. Rivulets of his own blood mingled with his sweat and stung acutely, and he dropped his blade, which buried itself in the dirt beside hers. 

He looked at her. She looked at him. A broad grin cracked across both of their faces, and they closed their distance and wrapped together in a loving embrace.

* * *

They had moved to the mansion’s opulent medical ward. At one point, hundreds of Noxian soldiers would be in here daily, staying until the dead of night dressing one another’s wounds and raising morale. Nurses would bustle and snap at the soldiers who leered at them. Marcus du Couteau would oversee all of them, with not a single scar in sight, standing as a paragon of health and masculinity and power. 

The room was empty now. It had been, ever since Marcus left. The du Couteau children were not nearly as respected as their father had been, and held no stake in the political chess matches that Noxus was divided into. 

Talon and Katarina tended to one another’s wounds, just like their father had taught them. She demanded Talon peel off his shirt and sit up on a bed, stating that she would treat him first. Katarina snickered at the mark she had given him, which was deeper than he had originally thought. She wrapped layers of gauze around his torso, and he groaned–not at the pain, but how her impossibly soft fingers would teasingly dance upon his stomach–light, feathery touches that innocently ran up and down tightly drawn muscles, that dipped occasionally into the hard grooves of his abdominals. His muscles tensed further with 

_joy? pleasure? fear?_

unease. He tried to make contact with her, seeking to gauge the emotions smoldering within her, but she infuriatingly refused to lift her gaze and focused intently on her administrations. 

Talon’s face flushed. He was not used to this proximity with anyone, anymore. Least of all _her_. He continued to cautiously look at her, marvelling at how peaceful she looked. 

His big sister, taking care of him. He snorted.

Talon’s stare trailed down, following the shallow but painful incision he had made across her arm. It had been a calculated slice, the sort that disengages without permanent damage. He exhaled slowly when he realized that he feared for his life while sparring with her. That he _had_ to stop it then and there. She had become his superior.

Curiosity got the better of him. Eager to stifle the oppressive, heavy silence, Talon asked: 

“When did you get so strong?” 

His voice came out as a rasp, scratchy from disuse. Finally, her sparkling eyes snapped to meet his. Katarina looked smug, as though she had expected the question.

“Why? You jealous?” 

When Talon glowered, she laughed and continued. 

“While you were goofing around and killing yourself to get some magical wackos off, I found a pretty good teacher. He–”

Talon’s back stiffened at the pronoun, but Katarina did not notice. Or did not care.

“–gave me priceless knowledge on how your _body_ dictates combat. How your physique is the point of balance for your soul. How to fight without _feeling_ so much.”

That explained the hideous neutrality plastered across her face when they had sparred. Talon’s brow furrowed, and she giggled again, too childish for her own good.

“And...where did you find this teacher? Other than Fath–the _General_ , nobody in Noxus offers lessons to assassins.” 

Katarina’s smile stretched wider, and she hopped up to sit next to him on the bed. He shrank away instinctively, feeling as though the brilliant green of her eyes would swallow him whole. 

She leaned in, and her breath tickled his bare shoulder. Her long, dark lashes fluttered in a conspiratorial manner, and she whispered, 

“I’ve been learning from someone outside of Noxus. Garen. The Demacian fuckboy.” 

Talon blanched and gawked at her. _Demacian_. Garen _Crownguard_. The man who had ripped and maimed and bathed in the blood of hundreds of their compatriots. The man who wouldn’t hesitate to bury all of Noxus under his brain-washed loyalty to the crown. The man who, for some godforsaken reason, was on a first-name basis with Katarina.

_the man who was more than he’d ever be_

She looked unfazed. “We met at the Institute–yeah, when I lived there– and he told me admired my interest with bladework, despite our...heh... _differences_ in political standing. I was hesitant, well, _venomous_ , at first. But he explained that at the Institute, we had the exciting chance to learn and understand ideologies from each other without fear of our allegiances interfering. And you already know that I _crave_ anything that could teach me more about our craft.” 

Katarina pulled back and looked at him for a moment. Talon could not tell if it was for validation or derision or anything in between. 

“So I took him up on it. And I learned a lot from him. And he learned a lot from me. He’s _so_ much like Daddy, you know. His voice, his inability to laugh at jokes, his favorite foods. It’s funny where you can find reflections of the people you know. I bet Daddy would throw a fit to know that a _Demacian_ is his carbon copy.” 

She looked melancholy. She looked wistful. She looked to Talon for a response.

He slid off the bed and went to grab more gauze. He avoided eye contact. 

“I should probably wrap you up now,” he growled.

* * *

Katarina hissed as he applied an herbal salve across the length of her arm. Her skin was so smooth that his calloused fingers almost couldn’t feel it. Talon gave her a dark look when she started to complain, and she pouted and fell silent. 

Wrapping her arm had been easy enough. The bleeding stopped a while ago, so it was simply a matter of disinfecting it with the salve and tying the gauze around the cut twice. Pleased, Katarina cheerfully leapt off the table. Then she grimaced and fell to her knees, arms wrapped around her belly. 

Talon dropped with her and placed supportive hands upon her shoulders. When he pulled her arms away to inspect, he saw a great purple bruise stretch across her fair skin.

He flashed back to when he had kicked her, and chastised himself for striking so hard. 

“We’ll have to put the salve on this, too. Lie back on the bed,” he ordered, in what he hoped was an even tone. 

Katarina wordlessly obliged. Thankfully, he could see the bruise just fine, so he didn’t have to ask her to remove her shirt. 

He let out a low whistle when he saw how far the bruise had spread, and wondered if he had cracked a few of her ribs. He really had done a number on her. Adrenaline was probably the only thing that had kept Katarina on her feet. 

She laughed at his incredulity. 

“This is nothing compared to what I gave your ego,” she quipped. His mouth twitched and he silently agreed.

Talon rubbed the salve between his palms in a seamless motion. Katarina’s smirk was gone: she watched him with inscrutable examination–some kind of bizarre mix of pride and contempt, joy and pain.

He took a terse breath as he looked down at her. There she lay, his older sister, with her radiant emerald expression and her perfect frame, waiting for him to put his hands on her. Talon quickly chased out ensuing thoughts and began to rub the ointment across her bruise, ignoring the tender, athletic flesh that lay below it. 

He flinched involuntarily when she moaned, her lips parted. She swatted him.

“Your hands are _freezing_ ,” she scolded. 

Talon shrugged and continued. It was becoming more and more difficult to ignore her lithe, muscular frame, especially when she would gasp and her tight little body would flex and contract as he massaged the salve into a particularly sore spot. He grit his teeth as he drew along the outline of her supple abs, dipping his fingers between them, pressing his palms against the flat planes of her navel. 

Talon recalled how she had once complained about her ab muscles and how prominent they were compared to Cass’ slender, ethereal frame. He thought she had been stupid for that. 

They didn’t exchange any further conversation, and Talon was grateful. It allowed him to forget _who_ it was tossing and turning beneath him. Something in his lower belly lurched, and he remembered how hungry he was. 

The bruise had spread all the way to the curve of her waist. 

That was a lie. But Talon’s hands wandered there regardless, smoothing up and down the hourglass figure and gently caressing her impossibly narrow waist. As he worked his way downward, he would almost violently grip and knead her protruding hip-bones. He found it difficult to resist. 

Katarina kept a weighty gaze upon him–her eyes only left his to flick up and down his shirtless frame. Talon thought he sensed amusement twinkling within them, but he was not sure. The rest of her face was scarily indecipherable.

She squeaked a few times when he clenched her hips a little _too_ hard,

_who could blame him_

but was uncharacteristically quiet for the duration of his massage. 

They were not so young anymore. Katarina’s body, though still captivating, no longer halted his thought processes, no longer turned him into a bundle of teenaged hormones. Talon had outgrown that. 

He was almost finished dressing her bruise. It didn’t feel like there were any broken ribs, and he told her as much. Katarina hummed lazily with approval, and he felt a sense of accomplishment that she was enjoying herself. 

Talon rubbed his palms one last time up the smooth slopes of her waist and belly mindlessly, lovingly. Then he froze. 

The corners of Katarina’s full lips rose into a sneer as he reflexively retracted his hands and held them diffidently at his sides. 

The hem of Katarina’s white crop top was hiked up; the pale, creamy undersides of her breasts disclosed to the night. He had carelessly drifted too far up, accidentally hooked his fingers beneath the fine cloth of her shirt. The sensation of brushing against her chest burned and tingled across his fingertips, and his stomach growled loudly. 

Thankfully, Talon had outgrown such childish mishaps. He cleared his throat, which was dusty and parched. 

“That should help with the bruising,” he coughed. “The pain won’t keep you up at night, at least.” 

Talon’s sweats didn’t feel nearly as loose now, and he turned and walked stiffly away from her. 

He heard Katarina get up and swing her legs off the bed, and then– 

_pop!_

–she stood before him. Thankfully, she had pulled her top back down, but it did not erase the image from his mind. 

“Poor little urch,” she cooed, and his heart raced when she stepped right up to him, brushing dark hair out of his face. Talon’s spine straightened at the motion, and he stared forward impassively, giving him a semblance of 

– _false_ – _amateurish_ –

confidence. She advanced, and Talon backed away apprehensively, recoiling when he felt the cold surface of a wall. 

Katarina smiled sweetly at him, and looked down at his swollen length, which was shamelessly outlined against the fabric of his grey trousers. 

“Poor _little_ urch,” she repeated, and he could feel the sarcasm dripping from her voice. “I didn’t know you were _still_ just a horny punk.” 

She bit her lip and pinned herself against him, allowing her breasts to pillow against his bare chest, bringing her own hips flush against his, grinding herself along his aching cock. 

Talon’s breathing became ragged and shaky, and he stammered:

“Kata– _hah_ –Kata _rina_ . _W_ -what are you– _hnn_ – _doing?_ ” 

She drew away, a wry look coating her features. 

“I’m _bored_ ,” she explained with a whine. “You’re horny, and I’m _bored_. You should know how dangerous that combination is.” 

“I don’t _want_ –”

“Don’t kid yourself. We’ve lived together long enough for me to tell when you’re worked up like an oversexed stray. You get the same predatory, _starved_ look in your eye.” 

Katarina smiled in recollection.

“You had the same look _that night_ –” she looked plainly at him. She remembered it, too. “–and you had the same look when you came back today. Someone’s gotten you all hot and bothered, little urch.” 

She placed her lips against his throat, and his member throbbed. Katarina trailed kisses down his neck, lapping at his collarbone. 

Then she whispered in his ear, soft and sweet, “What kind of sister would I be to leave you to rot?” 

She pulled away again, leaving him shivering against the stone wall, and sat down to begin working at the straps on her combat boots, prying the clasps off of the leather.

Katarina added, “If it helps, I want it, too. I haven’t seen Garen in _months_.” She looked at him villainously, waiting for his response.

Talon felt frozen, skewered in place. He wanted to melt, to rewind, to never have known Katarina. He flapped his mouth like a fish on land, taking heaving gulps of air uselessly. 

“Y-yo–” 

“Yes, little Talon. I’m sleeping with Garen Crownguard. You could say I’ve _fallen_ for him. At first I just thought it was hot because of the taboo, but it turns out even I’m capable of love, and it turns out that big oaf was the one to make me realize it. It’s only fair to let you know.”

She successfully ripped her boots off and tossed them haphazardly behind her, exposing ghostly, slim feet.

“The sex is kind of boring, though. For such a macho man, he’s way too sensitive. I think he’s scared of hurting me. He just humors me. Like I’m his daught–a little _kid_ that he’s just trying to shut up. He doesn’t _desire me_ the way I do him. It drives me crazy, how he can just _ignore_ me.” 

“But now you’re here. My little urch, saving me from the death sentence of boredom. Making me feel noticed again. I figure that deserves a reward.”

Katarina stood and put her right hand sassily upon her hip. Talon was still petrified, his member pulsating. His chest felt tight. His lower lip trembled. 

She spoke again. “I haven’t forgotten that night. You looked so eager, so willing, so _curious_. And you know what? I was, too. I still _am_.”

As Katarina approached him, hips swinging seductively from side to side, she said in a low, wicked voice, “Maybe after _this_ , he’ll pay attention to me.” 

* * *

He should’ve fucking known. He should have fucking _known_. No one would ever be interested in him _for_ him. Talon was just, would always be, a means to an ulterior end. 

A killer for another’s qualms. A paraded Champion for magical psychos. 

A little brother when it was convenient. A lover for a toss of the coin. 

An ersatz to spite the genuine. 

There was no _Talon_ , just a marionette of machinations that thought its thoughts had value. He had died the instant he was born, the instant he was given his name. The _urch_ was the closest thing to human that he’d ever be. 

He sighed wearily, feeling life drain out of his body, and resigned himself to his fate. He was just a tool. The _shadow_ of a tool. He looked on as Katarina, his sister, ~~the love of his life~~ , drew near.

He thought he had outgrown the sparks that tickled his belly, that pulsed down his length. But despite having realized his lot in life, despite the fact that his existence was a hollowness so empty that it was deafening, he still wanted her. Talon would _always_ want Katarina. That was the only human quality he had. 

The only human thing he could do was to take her as his own. To deny her to another–to bury and etch himself permanently within her. The pettiness, the _futility_ of his actions made him throb further.

Talon swallowed, and under Katarina’s amused eye, shucked off his sweats. She giggled 

_ever the child_

at how defiantly his member strained against the fabric of his undergarment. He was already wet, and it glistened against the flimsy cloth.

After all, it had been a while. 

Talon walked to meet her without shame or reservation, and Katarina simpered at him. She grasped the waistband of his underwear, pulling them down while dropping to her knees in a smooth, practiced motion. 

His undergarments hitched on his shaft, and she raised a brow and tugged with renewed effort. Talon’s cock sprang out, hot and long and swollen. She purred appreciatively and nuzzled her cheek against him, licking the precum from his tip. Talon gasped, and her smirk widened. Thin, gleaming strands clung to her lips as she pulled away. 

“The little urch is all grown up,” Katarina said mockingly. She kneaded the back of his tight, firm balls with her fingers, making him groan loudly, then asked, “Do you normally trim, or were you _planning_ on fucking someone today?”

Talon stayed silent, and she shrugged. “Whatever. Either way, I appreciate it.”

Katarina got up and took his hand, guiding him to one of the beds in the ward. Playfully, she shoved him, forcing him to sit atop the mattress, and went back down on her knees again. Talon remained motionless, curious to see what she had planned. 

Just like so many years ago, his sister massaged and teased his length. Unlike so many years ago, the motion was confident, self-assured, no longer foreign. Katarina ran her hand up and down, squeezing and smothering his hyper-sensitive tip, slathering the copious amounts of precum leaking from it along his shaft, lubricating him, allowing her to pump faster and faster. Her other hand groped for his backside, gripping and rubbing his taut ass appreciatively. 

Talon was in agony, ecstasy. He felt idiotic that a _handjob_ was bringing him over the edge. His essence, his _being_ was reduced to the back-and-forth motion of her hand upon his dick. He felt his thoughts begin to cut out and lose coherence as blood continued to pump to his cock, making it expand and tighten inside her dainty fist. 

“You’re so _long_ ,” Katarina murmured, leisurely watching his member pulse and throb within her grasp. Talon could only gasp in response, gripping the sheets of the bed in a desperate attempt to ground himself. His knuckles were white from how hard he clutched the unused blankets, frantically seeking to divert himself, to stymie the waves of pleasure rocking through his body. He felt like he would explode.

Katarina looked up at him, pale and shaking, and laughed, her face splitting into a diabolical smile.

Slowly, deliberately, she brought her face closer to his cock, making sure her lusty breath tickled his length, which twitched in protest. Talon watched her warily, feeling heavily outmatched. 

Katarina kissed the tip sweetly, her Cupid’s bow puckering pleasantly. She lapped at the precum, which now flowed freely, and ran her hot, wet tongue upon his length. She trailed further down, nipping at his balls, drawing lewd circles upon them. Her hands, now unoccupied, continued to stroke his rear end greedily, plying its muscular flesh. Talon bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and relished the pain it gave him–the only respite he had from her onslaught. 

Katarina knew how to make a man feel good. Talon chose to ignore the _how_ and _why_ , finding that it made him feel something he did not care for. 

Pleased with her progress, she smiled at him. A strand of careless ruby hair fell across her nose, lending her a juvenile appearance. Talon summoned the ghost of a smile to shoot back, chest aching from how beautiful, how _alive_ she looked. Her eyes narrowed, prismatic in the moonlight, at his expression. 

Her face mischievous, Katarina parted and wrapped her mouth lovingly around his tip. Talon moaned, the cry loosed loudly, unwillingly. He squeezed his eyeballs shut and looked upward at nothing, finding it more bearable to behold than her lips enveloping his cock. He could feel her head begin to bob along his shaft, taking half of him easily inside her. 

Her tongue was rampant, swirling and stroking him heatedly. Talon’s hands moved of their own accord, gripping and pulling her velvet hair, shoving her further down his length. Undeterred, Katarina hummed and crooned, and the deep vibrations resonated against him, making him see white. Talon felt so hard and swollen that he thought it a miracle he had not burst. 

Mistakenly, Talon looked back at her, wanting to watch her suck him off. He felt the need to _see_ her on her knees, devoting herself to pleasuring him. He thought it would make him feel more in control. 

That was a bad move. Talon’s hands fixed her head in place as he lifted off the bed, forcefully thrusting himself deeper inside her mouth. Her scar stretched, angry, terrible red, as her jaw widened to permit every inch of his length. And her eyes, alert and dazzling and forest-green, locked onto his. They crinkled affectionately, dotingly, when he met her gaze. 

His big sister, taking care of him. The thought made him seize up–he pulsed, throbbed, twitched, vibrated–his stomach muscles rippled and coiled as his orgasm swept him up and over the edge, taking him to a land that he feared, that he loved, where everything was blank and meaningless and he could feel _nothing_ and be allowed to do so. 

Talon moaned incoherently, trying to gasp her name. His chest heaved as Katarina took him fully within her. His cock jerked, and Katarina’s eyes widened and her hands grabbed his hips tightly as he shot his load; hot, thick ropes spurting deep down her throat. She coughed and gagged, tears welling involuntarily, but she fought back and swallowed with mighty gulps, not willing to be outdone. His grip kept her head still, making sure every fresh wave was taken by her. 

Spent, Talon relaxed his hold on her and fell boneless back onto the bed, quivering. It had been a long time. Beads of sweat wavered on his flesh, and his breathing could not settle upon a rhythm.

He thought of the prostitute in the slum. The one he had tried to project his hunger onto. He cringed.

_I should have killed her._

Talon thought of his admirer, who had touched and fondled and _taken_ him. The one with the distorted hearing, who heard _no_ as _yes._ He was grateful that he killed him. 

Talon thought of himself, lying before his sister, useless and unneeded. He wanted to die.

Katarina wiped her mouth and sat with him on the bed, watching his cock slowly pump out the last of his climax. She sighed and ran her fingers through his long, dark hair, stroking his locks fondly.

Finally, Talon thought of Gar– _him_ , and how Katarina must have done this for _him_ countless times. He thought of them, lying in bed, bodies slick and wet against one another, talking in muted, hushed voices, whispering sweet words that meant nothing and everything to each other. 

He shoved the image out of his mind and trembled. Talon _needed_ to belong to her, to carve his soul upon her, to be a part of her forever. She was _his_ sister. He could not stop here, not when that man would have her for the rest of his life.

Talon sat back up, still starving. Katarina looked at him measuredly.

“So there’s more to you, after all? Thank the stars. I thought you’d left for the Afterlife,” she gibed. White, pointed teeth flashed at him. 

“Shut up,” he growled. Katarina pursed her lips tightly, and her shoulders shuddered from repressed laughter.

“Oh, sweet Talon,” she breathed. She traced a delicate index finger down his chest, down his belly, down... down... until she clutched his aching member, soft and subservient. Katarina rubbed her palm along its underside, pressing it atop his lower belly. They could both feel it stirring back to life. 

“You take yourself too seriously.”

Talon glared at her, lying carelessly beside him like a proud lioness after a successful hunt. Her toned stomach shone from the salve, lending her frame an oily surface that accentuated her washboard abs. Her toes, white and tiny, wiggled playfully as she countered his glare with a smug smile. 

Talon hated Katarina, right then. She was perfect and kind and loving and would never be his. 

He gnashed his teeth and approached her, capturing her in a fevered kiss. He wrapped his arms around her back, pulling her into him, crushing their bodies tightly together. 

He heard Katarina moan and felt her smile airily against his lips. Then she forced her tongue into his mouth. She cast about, grappling with his tongue, their duel from the courtyard reignited. There was nothing amateur about this. They had grown up. 

They clumsily got out of the bed, and he lowered her onto the cold tile floor of the ward. He still clung tightly to her, feeling overwhelmed. 

Katarina pulled away from the kiss and regarded him. For once, there was no smirk, no playful glint in those enigmatic greens. She simply wore a wan smile, and her eyes looked

~~_pitiful_ ~~

–well, it did not matter. Talon nibbled at her neck, her clavicle, and bit at her chest, wetting the fabric of her shirt. Katarina sucked in a sharp breath and clutched his shoulder blades, her hands roaming along the smooth muscles of his back. 

Talon hungrily hooked his fingers underneath her top without any reservation. She sat up to help him pull it over her head, and her silky breasts spilled out, bouncing perkily. He began to suck at them, feeling her nipples harden beneath his tongue, and grabbed at them greedily. His cock twitched back to life as he toyed with her soft flesh. Talon reveled in her, intoxicated. He wondered if Garen did, too. 

Talon rubbed the smooth slope between her legs, teasing and massaging. He could feel how wet she was even through her thin leggings. She moaned and arched her back, and her hard nipples pressed into his chest, turning his skin to gooseflesh. 

He continued to drag his mouth down her body, and she continued to let him, her breaths quickening in pace. He licked and nibbled at her belly, which tightened pleasantly against him. He thought about how many times Garen had likely done the same. How many times he had taken her and released himself deep within her womb. If this smooth, flat belly would one day swell with _his_ child. 

Talon finally reached her shapely hips and immediately began yanking her leggings down. He bit his tongue. He was so hungry. He needed her to have him. He didn’t want her to leave him. He didn’t want to fester and rot alone. He–

She spoke.

“Talon. Talon. Talon, come here, come here.”

He sniffed and buried his face into her compliant chest. She ran her hand along the back of his neck thoughtfully, closing her eyes when she felt his naked body shudder against hers in rattled, painful heaves. His member strained against her violently. It pulsed, throbbing, swollen, and then fell silent.

There they lay, brother and sister. There they stayed–it was all they ever would be. 

* * *

Talon slung the pack over his shoulder, and shook his head politely at the servant who offered to store it in his quarters for him.

It was good to be back.

The large halls of the Institute were open and empty, and he welcomed the silence, his boots rapping sharply against the opulent marble floors. The chambers were dark, foreboding, and there was a synthetic, antiseptic feeling to the architecture, as though the designer were not human and prided himself on it.

Not a soul shared the space with Talon, and he walked on.

At a juncture in the hallway, he noticed a room with flashing lights and swirling, rumbling tremors emerging from it. The Summoners. A match was probably slated to occur soon. 

Right on cue, Talon’s skin began to itch and crawl, and he sighed as he realized he was going to be a part of it. 

_a perennial puppet_

Talon materialized onto the Summoner’s Rift–a vast, lush landscape that never ceased to remind him why he preferred the indoors. He felt the reedy whisper of the Summoner that invoked him prod his thoughts, urging him to purchase certain weapons. 

His Summoner informed him of the Champions on the enemy team as Talon made his way toward the winding river. Talon nodded and set himself for the battle ahead.

* * *

The match was still young, and many of the Champions were warming themselves up: they battled magically animated minions in the plains, and the more daring dueled the monsters residing within the dense jungle running through the rift.

Talon had restlessly searched the vast rift, scanning its topography with an obsessed glint in his eye. He vaulted over a large spire, then another. He had a mission. His Summoner tinnily cried out in his mind, but he ignored him. 

Finally, after creeping over a large boulder that jutted out from the end of the flooded river, Talon found him. 

The Might of Demacia stood idly by the brink of the river, relaxing. He rolled his shoulders lazily, his hulking sword stabbed into the earth. The brute cracked his neck and knuckles sharply

_false confidence_

as he unwound and stretched. 

In a flurry of six razor sharp knives, the Demacian was ripped open cleanly and calculatedly. Every slice was bespoke, tailor-made to his body, winding intimately around the heavy armor and padding that covered his figure. 

Garen Crownguard coughed, sputtered, choked. Dark blood babbled from his lips, streaming down his chin, dotting the dirt below. He whirled around with the last of his strength, eyes searching furiously for his assailant, who had melted into shadow. He took a shaky, hobbled step forward, and a damp _splash!_ followed. His visceral organs had spilled out, abandoned their master, muddying the earth an unsightly brown. 

He frowned, puzzled, and dropped dead.

The Summoner sharing Talon’s mind was silent, save for a few shaky, mortified gulps of air. 

Talon appeared out from the brush and stepped coolly over the corpse. He noticed one blade in particular, sticking out from the body’s throat. 

With a wet _schlick_ , he yanked the knife out, marveling at how coated it had become. 

For a few minutes, Talon stared at the blade and, with a curious expression, pressed it

_her_

to his cheek. 

Talon’s mouth twitched, and then split open. Deep, twisted laughter poured out from him, and then immediately stopped. The link between his Summoner and him disconnected.

It was piping hot. 

Disgusting. 

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, still kind of a rough shape right now. It's super long and might have to be divided into chapters. The title and words might be changed later on, but I felt like posting this just as starting point.
> 
> Also, I'm using the 'old' lore of League of Legends, back when there was an Institute of War and all. I don't even know what the lore is curently. 
> 
> There might be formatting issues like extra spaces between dashes and periods, oops. Also I lowkey have a fat crush on Talon and it pains me that I wrote him to be so wimpy and fragile.


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